someone pretending, even to himself, that he’s saddened by what’s happening.
But it isn’t true. Because in fact he’s pleased. Disgustingly pleased.
As I left the prison, I told myself that sooner or later I’d have to find myself an honest job.
17
Natsu came into the office the next day and, as I’d expected, didn’t recognize the man in the photo. She took it, asked me who he was, and looked at it carefully, for a long time. Such a long time that after a while I thought that, against all expectation, she had recognized him. Then, just as I was thinking this, she gave me back the photo, pursing her lips and shaking her head.
We were both silent. She seemed to be looking for something, at some indeterminate point above her and to her left. Then her eyes changed direction completely, moving down and to her right. It seemed as if she was having a dialogue with herself. She wasn’t paying any attention to me, which gave me a chance to look at her for a long time, savouring her features, her hazel eyes. And vaguely thinking many things. Too many things.
“There’s nothing we can do, is there?” She said this with a strange intonation in her voice. Hard to say if it was resignation, calm despair or something else. Like an unwitting hint of anticipation.
I shrugged and shook my head. “I don’t know. This was worth a try. I can’t think of anything else that makes sense.”
“So what do we do?”
“We wait for the appeal hearing, hoping we get a bright idea, or that something happens.”
“It won’t.”
“If nothing new happens, the only sensible thing to do is to plea-bargain. As I told you. As I already told him.”
“In other words, he gets a reduction in his sentence and stays in prison.”
“Theoretically, after the plea-bargaining we could try asking for house arrest. However ...”
I left the sentence hanging. It didn’t take me long to realize why. The idea of him coming home, even if he was under house arrest, was unbearable, unthinkable.
“However?” Her question wedged itself into my thoughts and my shame.
“Nothing. A technical matter. After the plea-bargaining we can try asking for house arrest. I wouldn’t hold out too much hope, because such a large quantity of drugs was involved. But we can try.”
“And if they don’t give him house arrest, how long will he have to stay inside?”
Once again I had the same strange feeling I’d had before. The feeling I didn’t quite understand the real reason for the question. Did she want to know how long she would be separated from her husband, or did she want to know how much time she had at her disposal?
How much time we had at our disposal.
Was she really asking that or was I projecting it onto her?
Because I was certainly wondering it myself. I can see that clearly now: at the time I was aware of it in a vague kind of way - although clearly enough to feel a mixture of shame and longing.
Longing for her - Natsu - and for the child. For the family I didn’t have. The family of a man who was in prison, a man I should be protecting and defending.
The longing of a thief.
“It’s hard to say right now. Even after the sentence has been made final, it’s still possible for there to be some reduction, time off for good behaviour, day release. It depends on a lot of factors.”
I paused.
“Certainly it’ll be a few years, even with the most optimistic forecast.”
She didn’t say anything. I couldn’t figure out the expression on her face. I was searching for the words to say that we could see each other again. Outside the office. Like last night. Go for a drive, listen to a little music, talk. Other things.
The longing of a thief.
I couldn’t find the words. My hypocritical phrase about the most optimistic forecast was the end of the conversation, and of our encounter.
When Natsu left, I told Maria Teresa that I didn’t want to answer the phone for half an hour, let alone see any clients who dropped by, as
But it isn’t true. Because in fact he’s pleased. Disgustingly pleased.
As I left the prison, I told myself that sooner or later I’d have to find myself an honest job.
17
Natsu came into the office the next day and, as I’d expected, didn’t recognize the man in the photo. She took it, asked me who he was, and looked at it carefully, for a long time. Such a long time that after a while I thought that, against all expectation, she had recognized him. Then, just as I was thinking this, she gave me back the photo, pursing her lips and shaking her head.
We were both silent. She seemed to be looking for something, at some indeterminate point above her and to her left. Then her eyes changed direction completely, moving down and to her right. It seemed as if she was having a dialogue with herself. She wasn’t paying any attention to me, which gave me a chance to look at her for a long time, savouring her features, her hazel eyes. And vaguely thinking many things. Too many things.
“There’s nothing we can do, is there?” She said this with a strange intonation in her voice. Hard to say if it was resignation, calm despair or something else. Like an unwitting hint of anticipation.
I shrugged and shook my head. “I don’t know. This was worth a try. I can’t think of anything else that makes sense.”
“So what do we do?”
“We wait for the appeal hearing, hoping we get a bright idea, or that something happens.”
“It won’t.”
“If nothing new happens, the only sensible thing to do is to plea-bargain. As I told you. As I already told him.”
“In other words, he gets a reduction in his sentence and stays in prison.”
“Theoretically, after the plea-bargaining we could try asking for house arrest. However ...”
I left the sentence hanging. It didn’t take me long to realize why. The idea of him coming home, even if he was under house arrest, was unbearable, unthinkable.
“However?” Her question wedged itself into my thoughts and my shame.
“Nothing. A technical matter. After the plea-bargaining we can try asking for house arrest. I wouldn’t hold out too much hope, because such a large quantity of drugs was involved. But we can try.”
“And if they don’t give him house arrest, how long will he have to stay inside?”
Once again I had the same strange feeling I’d had before. The feeling I didn’t quite understand the real reason for the question. Did she want to know how long she would be separated from her husband, or did she want to know how much time she had at her disposal?
How much time we had at our disposal.
Was she really asking that or was I projecting it onto her?
Because I was certainly wondering it myself. I can see that clearly now: at the time I was aware of it in a vague kind of way - although clearly enough to feel a mixture of shame and longing.
Longing for her - Natsu - and for the child. For the family I didn’t have. The family of a man who was in prison, a man I should be protecting and defending.
The longing of a thief.
“It’s hard to say right now. Even after the sentence has been made final, it’s still possible for there to be some reduction, time off for good behaviour, day release. It depends on a lot of factors.”
I paused.
“Certainly it’ll be a few years, even with the most optimistic forecast.”
She didn’t say anything. I couldn’t figure out the expression on her face. I was searching for the words to say that we could see each other again. Outside the office. Like last night. Go for a drive, listen to a little music, talk. Other things.
The longing of a thief.
I couldn’t find the words. My hypocritical phrase about the most optimistic forecast was the end of the conversation, and of our encounter.
When Natsu left, I told Maria Teresa that I didn’t want to answer the phone for half an hour, let alone see any clients who dropped by, as
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